Not today
by ncis-lady
Summary: "I belong with my brother," Kíli repeated quietly and Fíli understood. Today would not be the day to separate them. - Fíli and Kíli don't split up at Ravenhill, thus changing the outcome of the whole Battle of the Five Armies. Fix-it fic, h/c, brotherly love, friendship, angst, will be 5 -6 chapters. Rated T for blood and dwarven curses.
1. Divided we fall

Ever since I saw BOFA, I felt like a fix-it fic was necessary. Don't get me wrong: while I disagree with many decisions PJ has made especially concerning the last movie, I'm still incredibly grateful that he didn't change the fates of the three Durins. It would have taken away alot from what Tolkien wanted to show us in his book. The good don't always survive. Sometimes the kindest people die before their time, and in war it's usually the young people who die first.

But it didn't have to end this way. The moment Fíli and Kíli were seperated in BOFA, I knew that PJ would kill them off, and it made me wonder how things might have gone differently if they had stayed together. That is where this story picks off. It will still contain lots of h/c, angst, it'll be bloody of course, but I promise the ending will be a happier one. I'm working on chapter 5 at the moment, and I haven't decided yet if that will be the last one, so expect 5 - 6 chapters total.

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 **Not today**

 _There is only one thing we say to Death: "Not today." – Syrio Forel, in: A Game of Thrones_

 **1\. Divided we fall**

The surface before the tower of Ravenhill was pure ice, and Fíli could feel it crunch beneath the soles of his boots. He grabbed his sword tightly and allowed himself a quick glance at his brother. Kíli had insisted that he was fine, but still Fíli was concerned about the younger one's state. It wasn't long since he had been close to death, after all, and Kíli might be a good actor, but he couldn't completely hide the slight limp from his older brother. The wound from the Morgul arrow had healed well, but it was obviously still troubling him. Fíli clenched his jaw. Kíli shouldn't have come, he shouldn't be fighting in a battle such as this when he was not up to his old form. But Mahal knew he was glad for his brother's presence, for he knew just as much as Kíli that while they were both great fighters, it was fighting together that made them invincible. And invincible was what they had to be, if they wanted to survive this madness they had been catapulted into.

They had been lucky so far, though. The first encounter with the orcs had been like nothing Fíli had ever experienced. It had been brutal and cruel, he had seen them fall, orcs and dwarves and elves alike. But by some miracle, he and Kíli had made it out with only a few cuts and bruises that were hardly worth mentioning. His shoulder ached a little where it had been struck by a mace, but the orc that had wielded it had already been falling, blood gashing from its chest, and the blow had been rather mild compared to what could have been.

It could have been his end.

Fíli shook his head once, trying to rid his mind off these thoughts. It didn't matter now. What mattered was Azog, the pale orc. Thorin's orders echoed in his ears.

 _Search the towers._

He glanced at Kíli again, and deep down he realised that it wouldn't be that easy. It was an experience stemming from his childhood – trouble always seemed to find the sons of Dís, especially Kíli, and Fili had the unsettling feeling that this wouldn't change in Erebor.

In that moment Kíli's eyes met his, and the black-haired dwarf curled his lips into a soft smile.

"We'll be fine," he mouthed, and as the air crystallized before Kíli's face Fíli tried his best to relax. He should be the one reassuring his little brother, after all.

They reached the tower quickly. For a moment the two dwarves only stood there, straining their ears. They were surrounded by silence, a frightening silence in which the snowflakes fell like drops of blood onto a marble floor. It was then that the unsettling feeling in Fíli's stomach returned. Fear clawed at his heart, unreasonable fear for there was nothing to be scared of amidst these abandoned stones, but fear nonetheless. Something was wrong.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he stood completely still, and then he heard it. It was but a whisper, barely audible through the stone walls, but it was enough to send shivers down his spine. He knew, in that moment, that Thorin's intuition had been right all along. Azog was there, probably on the upper floor, waiting for them.

He startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Kíli was staring at him, worry mirrored in his brown eyes as he raised his brows.

He didn't know.

He didn't know that Azog was up there, and Fíli clearly remembered his uncle's words – _Stay together_ – but in a moment of clarity he understood that there was no way he would allow his baby brother to get in harm's way. It was the most stupid idea he had ever had, he was certain of it, but every ounce of reason was wiped away by the fear that seeped into his bones as images of his brother in Azog's hands stirred in his mind.

"Stay here, Kee, search the lower level. I've got this."

The words came automatically, his only means of keeping his younger brother out of danger the way he had been doing for decades until this cold winter's day at the Lonely Mountain. He knew it was foolish, and at any other time he would have laughed for it was usually Kíli who did the foolish things. Not Fíli. Not he who had been raised to be responsible, tactical, smart.

Going on alone was anything but smart. But it was better than taking his brother into the dragon's lair that was the upper level.

He pressed a hand onto Kíli's chest as the younger one stepped forwards, ignoring his command, and their gazes met for a moment.

"I mean it, Kíli."

Kíli's brown eyes were wide, the expression bearing a striking resemblance to that of the day when the stone giants had separated them.

"I belong with my brother," he rejected, gripping Fíli's tunic tightly as he fought hard to keep his voice low. "That's what you said, Fee. Together, Fíli, we need to stay _together_."

Fíli could tell by his brother's set jaw that he would be moved no more than the mountain itself. Kíli was determined to follow him, and who was he to blame him, after all? They had stuck together for seventy seven long years.

But he couldn't allow Kíli to put himself in danger like that. It was his duty as the older brother to keep him out of harm's way. It always had been, always would be.

"I belong with my brother," Kíli repeated quietly and Fíli understood even when he was still trying to ignore it. Today would not be the day to separate them, no matter what the sinking feeling in his stomach tried to tell him.

"Azog's up there," he said. It was a statement rather than an attempt to make his brother change his mind. For a short moment he could see fear in Kíli's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by fierce determination as he nodded.

Slowly Fíli went forward, hearing Kíli's footsteps behind him, and he felt as if the walls surrounding them came closer with every step he took. It was dark, but of course it didn't bother him. Dwarves could adjust easily to dim light. Suddenly Fíli heard his brother inhaling audibly. It was a short sound, one that could easily be overheard and would have gone unnoticed by anyone but Fíli – Kíli had heard the orcs, too. He grabbed the hilt of his sword more tightly. All his senses screamed at him to turn around and get his little brother to safety. But he wasn't only a brother anymore, Fíli realised, he was a soldier. And as a soldier, his duty was with his king.

Thorin needed to know what was happening, he needed precise information, details were of the essence and might save the lives of many on the battlefield. That was why Fíli pressed on, ignoring the uneasiness that grew with every second. After turning around a corner he stopped abruptly. Voices could be heard now, though Fíli didn't understand the words that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He recognised the Black Speech immediately and he shuddered. Kíli was at his side and cautiously stepped a bit further, head low between his shoulders, his right leg jarring slightly on the rocky ground. Quickly Fíli followed, fighting the urge to grab his brother by the collar and yank him back. Another corner in the maze of passageways, and all of a sudden Fíli forgot to breathe.

He saw the group of orcs not far away, who were apparently unaware of the two dwarves, judging by their lax postures. But that was not what made Fíli tense with sudden fear.

It was the light coming from behind, casting his own dancing shadow onto the ground, along with the distinct sound of heavy footsteps. Frantically he turned his head, searching for a tunnel leading away from where he and Kíli were trapped between the orcs before them and those approaching from behind. His heart hammered against his chest as his fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword.

Kíli turned his head and their gazes locked. Kíli's brown eyes were wide, glinting in the light of torches that came nearer way too fast for Fíli's liking. He, too, had his hand on his sword, and Fíli could see a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the coldness around them. He reached out with his left hand and squeezed Kíli's lower arm lightly in order to give him the reassurance he needed. They didn't need to talk. Fíli took a deep breath. They had fought before. They had been trained all their lives for this. Just another day in the training ground.

And Mahal knew ten orcs were nothing compared to Dwalin when the dwarf warrior was in a bad mood.

The thought brought a small smile to Fíli's lips, which in return made Kíli look at him in confusion. Before he could say anything, though, the light of torches became brighter; the footsteps were now just around the corner, and Fíli steeled himself for what was about to come.

The clash came out of the nothing. One moment Fíli had smiled at his brother, the next his sword met the steel breastplate of an orc whose club missed Fíli's head by mere inches. The orcs were few in numbers, but they fought fiercely, swinging swords and maces while grunting and gnarling at the two dwarves who stood their ground.

Fíli decapitated his opponent with ease, but at the same time he could hear more orcs coming. Those they had watched just seconds before came to help their comrades, and with a sinking feeling Fíli realised that he and Kíli were trapped. He fought harder than ever before in his life, ducking and spinning around as best as he could in the narrow passageway, wielding his sword with his right hand. Orcs fell by his hand as he fought with more strength than he knew he possessed.

"Fíli!" his brother yelled with panic in his voice, and Fíli turned around just in time. The blade of the orc smashed against the stony wall where he had stood the blink of an eye ago. For a short moment Fíli got a clear view on his brother, and it was a sight that made his blood boil with rage. Kíli was bleeding from a deep gash on his upper arm, and he stumbled backwards as the orc he was battling raised its sword once more.

With a war cry Fíli darted forwards, throwing cautions to the wind as seventy seven years of brotherly instinct took over. He bumped into the orc that stood in his way. Pain flared up in his right shoulder where he crashed against the armour of the orc, but the sudden force knocked the enemy right off his feet, sending him down where he came to lay on the ground, his throat slit by Fíli's sword in a swift motion. Without stopping for the dead orc Fíli flung himself at the one facing Kíli, burying his sword in the orc's back just as Kíli, too, jumped forwards. Stabbed with dwarvish blades from both sides, the creature gasped for air with a gurgling sound that made Fíli almost feel sick. He removed his sword, and as Kíli mimicked his action the orc collapsed. Black blood seeped out of its twisted mouth as well as from the deep wound in its chest, and the orc choked in its death throes before the body went still. The brothers eyed each other for a split second. Kíli sported a few cuts on his face, the sleeve of his tunic was dark from the wound, but Fíli noted that the bleeding must have stopped already. As for himself, he could feel a dull throbbing in his shoulder and a stinging sensation at the side of his neck where a blade had grazed his skin, but apart from that he was surprisingly alright.

"Let's get out of here," Kíli muttered after a last glance at the corpses around them. "That should be enough scouting, don't you think?"

Fíli nodded. He was still on high alert, his heart racing as he only slowly realised that they had won this fight against all odds.

"Go ahead."

He stayed close to Kíli. His limp had become worse, which didn't surprise Fíli at all. He should –

Suddenly Kíli fell backward. A warning cry was all Fíli heard before he met the blades of their enemy. Orcs were swarming in, blocking their way, and Kíli scrambled to his feet and raised his sword in defence. Fíli's stomach clenched painfully when it dawned on him that it was futile. They were outnumbered, they were trapped, and he had led his brother to his doom.

There was hardly enough room in the narrow passageway for two dwarves to stand side by side. It might be an advantage, Fíli prayed rather than hoped, because it meant that the orcs could only attack one at a time. It had to be an advantage.

He parried the club of one orc, pushing his sword deep into the creature's gut. The next one lost its head, and beside him Kíli swung his blade just as fiercely. One orc launched forward, an evil looking knife raised high and its face contorted with blood lust. Fíli widened his stance, gripped his sword tightly and prepared himself for the collision. He cried out when he buried his sword in the orc's chest, hitting it from below, and he lost his footing as the orc fell on top of him. He could feel the knife slicing his leather first and then his skin. A burning pain erupted below his collarbone where the dying orc had stabbed him; stars exploded before his eyes as his head hit the stony ground.

He could hear Kíli shouting his name.

 _Kíli._

He pushed himself up and prepared himself for facing the next opponent, but for some reason the orcs attacked only half-heartedly, coming towards the two dwarves but always stayed just so slightly out of reach. Fíli realised that he was stumbling backwards, up the passageway, and he probably understood their intention the same moment that Kíli did. Their gazes locked for a second. Kíli looked grim, a thin trail of blood was visible on the left side of his face, and Fíli narrowed his eyes. They would not allow the orcs to trap them on the upper level. With Azog.

Fíli darted forwards, knowing Kíli was doing the same, and plummeted against the nearest orc. The impact drove the wind out of his lungs, but the aim of his hand had been true: the creature died shrieking, one of Fíli's daggers in its throat.

Next to him, an orc fell by Kíli's hand. The brothers exchanged a fleeting glance, and Fíli asked himself desperately when Thorin and Dwalin would notice that things weren't going to plan.

"Where are they?" Kíli gasped as if he could read his brother's thoughts. Fíli had no time to answer, though, for the orcs were still coming at them. His arm was burning, he could feel every nerve tingling in a most unpleasant way, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep on like this much longer. He stumbled once or twice and he noticed that, despite his attempt to get out of the tunnel and back to where he and Kíli had come from, he was slowly but relentlessly forced backward. The tunnel made a slope not far from where he was standing his ground. He daren't think of what was waiting behind that bend.

He blocked another blow from an orc before him. He didn't think about what he was doing anymore. It was something Dwalin had never prepared him for: all tactical plans crumbled when it wasn't just your own life at stake. Every reasonable thought Fíli might have had when he'd entered Ravenhill was gone, replaced by the few words that replayed in his mind.

 _Keep him safe._

He buried his sword in the orcs chest. The enemy stared at him, and to Fíli's confusion and horror its thin lips spread to an evil smile. The grin remained on the face even when the eyes became empty.

It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps.

It wasn't the shuffling of orc feet that he had gotten used to during the last minutes. Nor was it the thud of dwarven boots on stone. Every step was a hammer on an anvil, the echo reverberating from the stone walls, and he understood.

And he was scared. For the first time, he was truly, utterly terrified.

He wanted to grab Kíli by the sleeve and pull him away, for he couldn't let his little brother face _him_ , but the path was blocked and the orcs were sneering, knowing as well as Fíli what the heavy footsteps meant.

"Fee…," Kíli whispered, eyes wide dark spots on a pale face; he was grabbing his sword with both hands as the footsteps grew louder. Fíli wished he could say something, anything to reassure him, but he didn't find the words in his heart.

This was his fault.

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 **More from Fíli's POV in the next chapter, but Dwalin and Kíli will both get their POVs in the following chapters. Thorin will be busy smashing orc skulls, though, he apologises for that. ;) Reviews are very much appreciated.**


	2. Sparks on dying embers

Thanks everyone for the reviews! To the guest reviewer: I promise that this will have a happy ending. ;)

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 _Bran thought about it. "Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"_  
 _"That is the only time a man can be brave," his father told him._

\- Bran and Ned Stark in: A Game of Thrones

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 **2\. Sparks on dying embers**

A deep voice filled the air with harsh words Fíli didn't understand. And then, when the last words had faded, he turned around the corner.

Fury took hold of Fíli's heart then, anger he hadn't felt ever since he had seen Thorin lying motionlessly on the ground with an orc's sword at his throat. The Defiler wouldn't escape again.

Azog was watching him. There was something in the cold, hardened gaze that Fíli couldn't read. Beside him Kíli was shaking with rage and fear. The orcs they had fought just minutes earlier were still, probably waiting for a command. There were few of them left. Fíli was standing completely still. Everything was mute but for the steady beating of his heart. The stab wound was still bleeding sluggishly; he could feel the warm blood on his skin. He forced himself to take calm breaths, in and out, in and out, in tune with his heart that reminded him that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.

"So this is how low Oakenshield has fallen?" Azog sneered. His broken Westron sounded even more terrifying that the orcish tongue he used to speak in. "Too much of a coward, the khozd shorakh, sending children to fight for him?"

Fíli could feel the blood boiling in his veins. He grabbed his sword tightly and tried to keep the other orcs within the periphery of his vision while Azog was pacing before him. Part of him yearned for an attack, just to get it over with, but the other, more reasonable part told him to keep still, wait, and above all, watch out for Kíli.

"I could kill you easily, you know," Azog snarled. "You're weak, just like the rest of your filthy bloodline."

Suddenly he nodded at someone behind Fíli's back. The young dwarf spun on his heel, ready to defend himself, but froze when a scream tore at his heart. He knew then that he had made a terrible mistake even before he turned his head.

He was barely aware of the blade ripping his armour apart just below his waist. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the fight happening before his eyes and yet so out of reach. Kíli was bleeding, he could see that, and he felt cold fear claw at his heart when Azog's prosthetic arm connected with Kíli's broad sword. He stumbled when he put his full weight onto his right leg.

Furiously Fíli swung his sword at the orc that kept attacking him and didn't stop when another enemy took his place. The sound of metal clashing against metal echoed from the stony walls. Someone had to hear the fight, Fíli prayed, someone would soon come. Thorin, Dwalin, they weren't so far away.

Thorin.

Realisation hit him hard. It was what Azog was aiming for, that was why he was keeping him and Kíli alive. Somewhere along that trail of thought Fíli's prayer changed. He prayed that Thorin was far away, that he would rally his forces instead of taking on Azog by himself. He prayed that his uncle would be spared the pain of seeing another family member dying by Azog's hand.

He prayed that please, _please_ , let Kíli live.

He buried his sword in an orc's gut. A kick with his heavy dwarvish boot sent the creature flying against his approaching comrade. A well-aimed throwing knife made the light in the second orc's eyes go out. Fíli ran.

It was only a few leaps to where Kíli was still keeping his stand against Azog. It wasn't far, but to Fíli his feet felt like lead holding him in place. He wanted to shout out a warning when Azog lifted his weapon once more, and it was only due to decades of training and battle tactics engraved in his bones by Dwalin – "Don't shout at your comrade when he's in one-on-one combat, the distraction will get him killed!" – that he didn't make a sound. He could only watch helplessly as Kíli stumbled, tried to regain his balance and wield the sword at the same time, and fell. Immediately Azog was above him.

Fíli's war cry shook the walls.

His sword clashed against Azog's side. The pale orc roared, more of surprise than of pain, Fíli knew, and turned away from his prey. Fíli only had a split second to gaze at his brother. He could see that the left side of his face was covered in blood, as was the sleeve of his armour. But it was the fact that he was deathly white and unmoving that sent Fíli's mind reeling.

A guttural growl escaped his lips as he charged after Azog. He hardly felt the pain in his shoulder and upper leg. Everything was wiped out, the pain, the fear, nothing was left but burning rage and the words that kept repeating themselves in his head as he parried Azog's attacks and landed blow after blow in return.

Kíli. Mother. Thorin. Dwalin. Balin.

He was fighting for them, for they had come so far and lost so much along the way. He was fighting for them because they had done the same for him more times than he could count.

Sweat was running down his forehead, his arms were shaking. Still he never stopped, not when Azog's blade bit through the metal of his armour and sent a searing pain up his right arm that immediately combined with the throbbing of his shoulder. Azog was bleeding as well, and it was that sight that kept Fíli going.

Kíli. Mother. Thorin. Dwalin.

"No one is coming for you, dwarf scum!" Azog sneered as Fíli staggered after him. He blocked Fíli's blow easily. The blonde dwarf didn't respond. He wouldn't waste precious strength.

"I killed the dark one. He's your brother, is he not?"

The orc laughed a maniacal cackle that sent shivers down Fíli's spine. He clenched his jaw and forbade himself to listen to the taunting words. Kíli would be alright. He wasn't dead, he'd know if he was. For a moment the picture of Kíli's bloodied face swam before his eyes.

"You'll answer for this."

At first Fíli didn't recognise the cold voice as his own. He flung himself at the large orc, ducked at the last moment as Azog launched forward, and whirled around. Desperately he tried to seize Azog's moment of confusion. It was something he had practised time and time again with Dwalin. But this was no training ground. He hit the orc with his sword, though instead of pushing the blade into Azog's back from below, he only managed a blow from the side. It was the wrong angle, he realised immediately. He could feel his blade jar the orc's ribs, but it didn't go through. Azog roared and spun around, and Fíli heard the thud of fist hitting bone before the blow sent him flying. For a moment he thought his neck had been broken; stars were dancing before his eyes and his hand gave way as he tried to push himself off the ground. He had lost his sword and felt panic rise for the first time. He craned his aching neck, all while Azog was approaching tauntingly slow, obviously relishing the moment.

Kíli. Mother. Thorin.

He could see his brother and he thought he was twitching where he was lying. Just a minimal movement of the fingers, a slight nod, there was something, there had to be something, _anything_. Fíli's eyes then perceived something else.

His shoulder burned up with pain as he reached out his hand. He clenched his teeth. Azog was so close that he could hear his harsh breathing. He strained his fingers; the hilt was so near, so very near.

Kíli. Mother.

A shadow fell over him, blocking every light from his view, and suddenly Fíli's world exploded into a cacophony of blinding agony. His mind went blank, his surroundings became a blur in the semi-darkness, and a scream tore from his lips that drowned out Azog's sneer. He couldn't see, he couldn't move, and then he couldn't feel anything at all and he wondered briefly if he was dead after all. A little voice inside whispered that it wouldn't even be so bad.

He blinked twice, then once more, and slowly the figure before him resolved itself into a clear shape.

He didn't dare to turn his head. He had heard the cracking sound, he had felt the bones breaking under the heavy boot, and as Fíli desperately tried to gather what little strength he had left he could feel a fire clawing at his right arm that made him want to scream and never stop. He willed his body to move, to fight, yet the pain took his breath away and he only stared, wide-eyed, at the horrible creature that had haunted his uncle for so long.

"I killed one king. Mighty Thrór, king under the mountain, I ripped his ugly head from his weak shoulders!" Azog laughed. "I will kill your uncle, I will finish what I started, but before he dies he will see your head on a spike, and your brother's, too, and when he dies it will be mercy for that miserable excuse for a king."

The orc stood above him, his creepy eyes locked on Fíli. They held a dreamlike expression that Fíli had never seen in an orc before. It scared him to the bone, an image from a nightmare, horrible and gruesome. And Fíli knew that this time he wouldn't wake up to a caressing hand and tenderly whispered words that promised him that he was safe. There was no safety, not in this forsaken place where his brother was lying still and pale and maybe dead, where his own body was betraying him by sending waves of agony into every bone, where all hope was lost within the cold walls of Ravenhill.

"Fee?"

A whisper, faint and barely audible, probably inaudible to anyone but him. Fíli gasped and found the source of the single word, his eyes locking onto brown orbs in the distance and taking in the sight of his brother who was moving ever so slightly as he tried to raise his head. The small word echoed in Fíli's ears. And just like a spark can reignite a fire from smouldering embers, the word became his lifeline.

Kíli. Kíli. Kíli.

The fingers of his left hand clawed into the stony ground. He wasn't ready to go.

With a groan he rolled himself to the right, almost blacked out when his shoulder and arm screamed in protest of the sudden movement, and then his fingers curled around the cool hilt of his sword. He swung it with his left hand while he was still on the ground. It wasn't enough to kill Azog, but Fíli had the element of surprise in his favour. In one fluid motion he got to his feet and attacked once more. Azog howled when a deep gash appeared on his thigh, he staggered once or twice, but didn't fall. Fíli gritted his teeth. He wondered briefly if Azog had even noticed that Kíli was conscious, and silently he willed his little brother to stay put.

Metal clashed against metal. Fíli was fighting instinctively; the world around him was a blur, his vision white at the edges. Azog, too, had given up talking. No more taunting words came out of his twisted mouth, no insults or arrogant remarks. Fíli hoped that it was a good sign.

But his own strength was fading fast. He stumbled as he blocked an attack. He tried to regain his balance, but Azog came at him again, swinging his enormous weapon with full force. The blow knocked him off his feet and sent him flying into the wall. The impact drove the air right out of his lungs and he gasped with pain as his right arm seemingly burst into flames. For a moment he lay crumpled on the ground and couldn't move as the gigantic creature approached him again, not as slowly and tantalisingly as before, but quickly and determined to kill. He thought he could feel the draught as Azog wielded his blade.

For a moment Fíli wondered who would tell his mother that he wouldn't come home.

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 **A/N: khozd shorakh = dwarf scum.**

 **Reviews make my day!**


	3. The sword of Durin

Thanks a lot for your reviews, keep them coming! We're switching to Dwalin and Thorin now. I hope you like this new chapter!

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 **3\. The sword of Durin**

" _There is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man." – Varys in: A Game of Thrones_

-Earlier-

It didn't feel right. Something was wrong, Dwalin was certain of it. He cast Thorin a glance and knew that his friend was sharing his concern. The boys should have been back by now, but not a sight of them could be seen.

"Something's off," Thorin mumbled as if he could read Dwalin's mind. "I have a bad feeling about this, Dwalin. I shouldn't have sent them away on their own."

Lines of worry were etched upon Thorin's face. He didn't resemble the mad king he had been not so long ago, and Dwalin hoped that he would never see that side of his longest friend ever again. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and nodded grimly.

"Aye. Do you think…"

He didn't dare to utter the words aloud. They were alright, they had to be. He would never forgive himself if anything had happened to Thorin's nephews, and Mahal knew what the guilt would do to Thorin.

"Let's get them back, Dwalin," Thorin said firmly and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the tower of Ravenhill in the distance. "I will not lose them, not after everything."

The two dwarves quickly assessed their weapons and made for the tower. Dwalin never took his eyes off the stone building, expecting enemies to appear from behind it or arrows from above, but none of that happened. Instead he flinched when a voice behind them came out of nowhere.

"Thorin!"

Thorin whirled around, sword at the ready. He sighed with relief when he recognised the person, then regret and sadness flickered in his eyes.

"Bilbo! What are you doing here, it's not safe! I'm –"

"Save that for later," Bilbo replied indignantly, which made Dwalin raise his brows in amusement. Not many dared to speak to Thorin like that.

"Thorin, I have news," Bilbo spoke. He must have been running, for he was panting heavily, and his eyes were wide. "There is another army coming to Erebor. Bolg, son of Azog, is leading them."

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a quick glance. The bald warrior felt the sinking feeling in his stomach. He wondered how big that second army was. Their chances had been slim before, but with even more orcs to come it was downright hopeless. He closed his eyes for a split second, praying that Balin was alright and wasn't lying dead on the battlefield. But he couldn't allow himself to get lost in these thoughts. He had to focus. It was essential to gather the dwarves and make a plan, and quick, on how to deal with the new threat.

"We'll get the lads back and then leave this place," Thorin decided. Dwalin hadn't expected anything else. Thorin wouldn't leave without his sister-sons. "Go back to the mountain, Bilbo, but stay out of the battle. Hide yourself."

"I can –"

"No." Thorin laid his hands onto Bilbo's shoulder. "A battle ground is no place for a hobbit."

There was no disrespect in his voice, no underestimation or scorn. Instead, sorrow and regret echoed in every syllable. It was a silent plea for forgiveness, and Bilbo, wonderful, loyal, friendly Bilbo seemed to understand. He nodded courtly and buried his right hand in the pocket of his vest.

"May Mahal's hammer shield you," he said and Dwalin smiled when he recognised the common dwarven phrase. He wondered who of the dwarves had taught Bilbo.

Thorin let go of the hobbit and turned towards Dwalin.

"Come on."

Dwalin took a deep breath and clutched the hilt of his sword. Side by side the dwarves marched towards the tower. When Dwalin turned his head, Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

At the foot of the tower they almost stumbled over several corpses. From above they heard the clattering of metal hitting metal, and the two warriors exchanged a grim look. Thorin's lips were pressed to a thin line as he followed the staircase with his eyes. It seemed to be deserted. He nodded at Dwalin, who went first, his sword tightly clasped by his steady hand.

The noises grew louder as they came nearer to the upmost level. Suddenly there was a loud, howling sound that sent shivers down Dwalin's spine. Beside him, Thorin stopped abruptly. His eyes grew wide as he, too, recognised the sound.

"No," whispered Thorin. "Mahal, no."

He ran before Dwalin could hold him back. He followed his friend up the stairs, desperately hoping that the king wouldn't do anything stupid when deep down he knew that Thorin would rather walk to his own death than see his kin fall.

They reached the upper level together. The sight before them made Dwalin's blood run cold. He could see Azog, that terrifying monster that had haunted his best friend's dreams for decades, a blade held high above his head. The orc had its back turned to the two dwarves, the attention completely caught by the figure on the ground, ignoring the corpses of orcs scattering the ground around him. Fear clenched Dwalin's heart as he recognised Fíli who was literally with his back against the wall. He watched, almost mesmerised, as the blade came down, there was nothing he could do for it was happening too fast, he was frozen in place and could only hear a scream through the buzzing in his ears. Or was it two screams?

The blade missed the dwarf on the ground. Azog stumbled as someone slammed into him, someone who cried out with rage and fear just as Thorin, too, yelled and launched himself at the orc.

Azog roared, shaking the raven-haired dwarf off like a horse would get rid of a fly, and Kíli landed on the stony ground and moved no more. He lay there, motionless and pale, and Fíli stared at his brother with wide, frightened eyes while a trail of blood was running down his face. It was that sight that set Dwalin in motion.

With a battle cry he followed Thorin who was duelling Azog. If it was Dwalin's shout that distracted the orc, or if he had already been weakened, Dwalin couldn't tell. But before he could reach the two fighters, blood suddenly rushed from a wound at Azog's side. Black and thick it was as it tainted the ground. Azog fell to his knees, the blood splattered as the orc dropped his sword into the dark puddle, and Dwalin could only watch as Thorin swiftly cleaved his enemy's arm off just like all those decades ago.

Dwalin would have thought that Azog would go with a howl and a curse, but in reality he was silent. His gaze became empty as the blood gushed from the grisly wound. Thorin stood before him. Dwalin could see his chest heaving as he narrowed his eyes and faced his arch enemy.

"Zagr Durinul ai menu."

And with these words he pushed his blade into the white orc's neck.

He kept standing before the orc for a moment more, his fierce blue eyes watching as the light faded from the other pair. Dwalin had a vague idea of what was going on in his friend's head right now, for he himself struggled to grasp at the variety of emotions playing on his mind. Relief, sure, happiness, maybe, but also unsurpassed fury that so many had had to die before that creature was wiped from this earth.

"Kíli… Kee, wake up, please."

The words were only a faint whisper, but they shook Dwalin from his thoughts. Thorin's head shot up and he paled visibly. Dwalin didn't know who reached the boys first, but when he saw Fíli cradling his little brother with his left arm he feared that they had come too late after all. Again the buzzing sound rose in his ears, for it couldn't be true, not after everything.

Thorin crashed to his knees beside his nephews and gently laid a hand onto the back of Kíli's head. When he redrew it, it was stained with blood. The chainmail on Kíli's left arm was rent, the metal matted with a crimson layer.

"He called me…" Fíli whispered shakily. "He was out cold before but then he… he… and then Azog…"

He couldn't go on, and Thorin didn't press him. Instead the older dwarf looked at Dwalin.

"He's unconscious, but he still draws breath. Head injury, along with blood loss I suppose."

Dwalin nodded. He knew these kinds of injuries. He told himself that not all of them had been fatal.

But not all had survived, either.

"Fíli, how do you feel?" he asked, partly in order to get rid of the haunting thoughts, but mostly because the blonde dwarf looked a mess, frankly spoken. Blood had dried on the side of his face and Dwalin counted at least two more blood stains on the dwarf's armour. He also noticed that Fíli's right arm looked strange. "Your arm –"

"Broken," Fíli said through clenched teeth. "Need to keep it fixed."

Dwalin ripped a long piece of cloth from his tunic and knelt down next to Fíli. From the corner of his eye he saw Thorin taking care of Kíli.

"Anything else?" Dwalin asked, knowing quite well what to expect.

"Just some lesser wounds, superficial, really," Fíli said and almost exceeded the older dwarf's expectations. Fíli had always been good at downplaying his hurts, but that was a new level even for him.

"Superficial, huh?"

"Aye. Nothin' t' worry about," Fíli replied and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of his brother. The worry for Kíli was etched onto his face as clearly as runes on a stone, and Dwalin thought that maybe Fíli really didn't notice the way his voice was beginning to slur. His gaze fell onto a dark stain just beneath the dwarf's collarbone. There was no bleeding, though, the blood had dried already. He put the cloth around Fíli's shoulder and squeezed it slightly. Fíli startled as if he had completely forgotten him. "I'm fine, just that damn arm 'tis all, just scratches, will be – argh!"

The rest of his sentence was lost as he cried out when Dwalin moved his arm and knotted the cloth to a sling. Next to them Thorin flinched.

"Fíli? Fíli!"

The blonde still sat with his eyes squeezed shut, and Dwalin could see tears pooling from under his eye lashes.

"Just scratches, my arse," he muttered.

"Alright, let's get you out of here," Thorin said gruffly. "Dwalin can you –"

Dwalin nodded courtly and, after a last glace at Fíli, went to the unconscious dwarf and picked him up. It surprised him just how light Kíli was. It was a painful reminder of what the young one had had to go through already. Of course the past events had taken their toll on him. He carried him across his shoulders and threw Fíli a reassuring look.

"He'll be fine, lad."

Fíli didn't reply, but just kept gazing at his brother as the three dwarves, with Kíli, made their way down the tower staircase. Dwalin didn't fail to notice the difficulty with which Fíli was walking. Sweat was glistening on his forehead despite the chilly air. They needed to get both lads to a healer, Dwalin decided.

Bilbo's warning echoed in his head.

The mountain seemed so far away from Ravenhill. Too far for Kíli, who still hadn't woken, too far for Fíli, who was fighting so hard to keep going when it was plain to see that he was struggling, and maybe too far for Dwalin to find his brother in time. Thorin was leading the small group and as they approached the mountain the battlefield came into view. An icy grip took hold of Dwalin's heart. There was a moving mass of black and grey, but there were people caught in that chaos, people who, not long ago, had laughed, had loved, had lived and who would soon be lying dead and cold under a blanket of snow. Eyes that had sparkled with joy would soon turn empty, and families would be torn apart forever.

He clenched his fingers around Kíli's wrist. He needed to feel his pulse, needed to confirm that death had not yet claimed this life that he had sworn to protect.

It was then that the ground started to shake.

Thorin stopped dead in his tracks, and when he turned around Dwalin could see his eyes widening in horror. Beside him Fíli stood panting heavily, his good hand pressed against his thigh. Dwalin cursed inwardly when he perceived the blood beneath his fingers. He should have paid more attention. But now his attention was caught by something else, and the sight made his heart hammer in his chest.

Heavy footsteps made the ground shake; a sound like thunder filled the air that mingled with the rhythmic war chants. The second army.

Dwalin didn't know how many orcs were approaching. He only knew that the large group was marching right at them. Four dwarves, one of them out cold, one injured, would soon face Bolg's army. The seasoned warrior had fought in critical situations before, had experience with being outnumbered, but never had he faced something like this.

 _Mahal, help us._

"Go."

Fíli gasped quietly. Dwalin only stared at Thorin, who looked back at him with hardened eyes. He couldn't believe his ears. Surely his friend wouldn't ask this of him.

"Go," Thorin repeated sternly. "I'll try to get you a few minutes."

"Uncle, no," Fíli rejected. His knuckles stood out white as he grabbed the hilt of his sword tightly with his left hand. "I'll fight with you."

"Thorin, it's what Bolg wants, don't do that," Dwalin said almost simultaneously.

"Dwalin, go. Keep them safe."

Dwalin's mind was reeling at the thought of abandoning his brother in arms. This was madness, it was against everything he'd ever known. But he also heard the urgency in Thorin's voice. Thorin had always trusted Dwalin with his life, but this time it was about something far more important than that. Thorin's face was stony, his eyes hard, but to Dwalin he was more a king then than he had ever been. A crown and golden armour, gems and even the Arkenstone itself were nothing compared to the word of an honourable dwarf. The way he stood before them, with his sword in one hand and the fierce determination to protect his kin mirrored in his blue eyes, made Dwalin think that he didn't want to switch places with any of the orcs.

He nodded slowly.

"Uncle –"

"Fíli, no. No. I gave a promise to your mother, that…" He stopped mid-sentence and laid one hand onto his nephew's shoulder. The thundering footsteps were getting louder with every second. Somewhere a horse whinnied loudly. Several riders approached from the side, ready to attack the flank of the orc army, but they were far away. Bolg would meet Thorin before the riders would even be close enough to shoot arrows.

Thorin let his gaze meet Fíli's. The younger one's eyes were wide and dazed, as if he could not believe what was happening, and Dwalin could not blame him.

"Uncle, please –"

"You have done enough, Fíli. You belong with your brother."

Fíli flinched when Thorin spoke the last words. Something in his eyes changed then, and he turned his head briefly to look at Kíli. The ghost of a smile appeared on his face.

"Aye. That I do."

Dwalin watched as Thorin briefly pressed his forehead against Fíli's, but there was no time for long sentiments.

"Alright, go!" Thorin ordered and Dwalin didn't hesitate anymore. He pulled Fíli at the shoulder and when the youth followed he maintained a one-handed grip on Kíli whilst the other hand grabbed his sword. He knew where the healers would be, and with a bit of luck they would get there without meeting the enemy, but it was better to be safe than sorry. It was usually Balin who would say that, but now Dwalin thought that it couldn't be more true.

 _If only Balin is alive._

He managed to manoeuvre Fíli along the edge of the battleground. It took all his willpower to resist the urge to join the fray and search for his own brother, but Dwalin had made a promise that he was determined to keep. The sounds of battle reached his ear, although they were almost drowned out by Fíli's laboured breathing and the faint movement of Kíli's rising and falling chest against his shoulder. He clenched his teeth and scanned the area before him. He spotted a group of dwarves, two of which were being carried by their comrades. Dwalin followed them towards the mountain, and soon another dwarf came running at them.

"Bring the wounded here!"

The healers' tents had been erected in the shadow of a huge wall. Dwalin choked when he perceived the vast number of people bustling outside, and probably inside, the tents. There were not only dwarves, he realised, but also men.

He reached the entrance of the first tent and took a moment to catch his breath. Immediately Fíli was at his side, running a hand along the side of Kíli's bloodied face and then down his neck. Dwalin could see his hand shaking.

"He breathes still, Fíli. He'll be alright."

Fíli didn't reply, but kept his gaze set on his brother.

"Somebody help us!" Dwalin yelled. "Help!"

A grey-bearded dwarf ran towards them. Dwalin recognised the crest on his vest. He was one of Dáin's people.

"Borun, at your service," said the healer.

"Dwalin, at yours, and these are the nephews of Thorin Oakenshield, so hurry up for Durin's sake!"

"Bring them in."

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 **A/N: "Zagr Durinul ai menu." = The sword of Durin is upon you.**


	4. Priorities

Thanks a lot for reviewing, favouring and putting this story to your alert lists! Oh and happy German Unity Day - today (3rd October) we're celebrating the 25th anniversary of the reunion.

I hope you like this chapter. I didn't plan to be so mean to Fíli, but it just happened (and me sitting through a one and a half hour long conference session on wound inflammation and survival rates of patients didn't really help poor Fíli here, hehe). This chapter will also feature a dwarf names Floki, who wasn't planned at all but who stormed into this story, name and family background and everything, and he looked and spoke like someone straight out of "Outlander", so I thought to myself: why not? Any Scottish people reading this? If yes, feel free to correct my sad attempt at writing a mix of Scots and English.

Reviews are very much appreciated!

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 **4\. Priorities**

 _Some commands are more easily given than obeyed._

― _George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones_

The air inside the tent was sticky and filled with the odour of sweat, blood and disinfectants. It made Dwalin's stomach do an unpleasant turn as he laid Kíli down onto the nearest stretcher.

"Kee?" Fíli whispered and leaned against the wooden frame. "Kíli, please…" He lifted his head when Borun inspected Kíli's head wound. "He won't wake. He saved me and now he won't wake up and… and…"

His stammered sentence ended abruptly. He blinked twice and ran the back of his left hand across his eyes. He was swaying on the spot, and Dwalin quickly rushed to his side to support him.

"He'll be fine. Kíli's a fighter."

On the stretcher Kíli suddenly moaned quietly. Fíli struggled in Dwalin's iron grip. When Kíli's eyelids fluttered a satisfied smile appeared on Borun's face. He beamed at Fíli.

"Your brother will be alright, I sense it. I'll examine him further, but I think the concussion is the worst of his injuries. Now let's get someone for you, shall we?"

But Fíli didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were transfixed on Kíli, who was still struggling to open his eyes. The brunette winced when Borun began to undo the armour. His lips moved ever so slightly, and at first no word could be heard. Borun stopped his work and gently laid a hand onto Kíli's cheek.

"That's it, boy, wake up."

But Kíli's eyes remained closed. He only said one word.

"Fíli."

At that word a low sound escaped Fíli's lips, a sound somewhere between a sob and chuckle, before he grew limp and collapsed against Dwalin's chest.

"Fíli!" Dwalin cried in dismay when the prince suddenly hung limply in his arms. It caught Borun's attention, who immediately called for two of his kinsmen.

"Svanir, Floki, take care of him. Blood loss, I reckon."

Svanir was a middle-aged dwarf with a rather short, but thick beard and grey eyes. He looked at Dwalin questioningly.

"What happened?"

"Oh, I don't know for sure, but I _suppose_ he fought in a bloody battle and forgot to mention that _maybe_ that broken arm and 'just scratches' wasn't all that's wrong, but that is just my idea," Dwalin replied sarcastically. The healer didn't comment on his harsh tone. Dwalin figured he wasn't the first one to lose his patience in that tent.

"Table," Svanir ordered courtly, and the other one, who seemed much younger and had brightly blue, twinkling eyes and a long, fiery red beard, nodded. The two dwarves, with Dwalin's help, hauled Fíli's prone form onto the nearest table. Svanir unfastened the cords of Fíli's leather tunic while his comrade, after taking one look at the blood stain on the dwarf's thigh, quickly discarded of his boots and trousers. The wound still hadn't stopped bleeding and inwardly Dwalin cursed himself for not taking care of it earlier.

"Goin' ter patch ye up, lad, hold still," Floki said and reached for a needle and a flask. When he undid the stopper the distinct smell of alcohol filled Dwalin's nose. Instinctively he put a hand onto Fíli's leg, knowing from experience that he'd try to pull it away the moment the disinfectant would reach the wound. Floki acknowledged it with a nod. For a few seconds Dwalin only watched the healer doing his work. There was something soothing about the quick, yet regular movement of the needle. Fíli squirmed a little, but remained unconscious. Svanir was cleaning a wound below Fíli's collarbone. Then he hesitated for a moment.

"You said he broke his arm?" he asked. When Dwalin nodded, the healer fetched a pair of scissors and carefully started to cut open the sleeve of the tunic. Dwalin risked a glance in the direction of the stretcher on which Kíli was lying. Borun was still at his side, but his movements weren't hasty, which the warrior took as a good sign.

"Durin's beard!" Svanir suddenly exclaimed, which shook Dwalin from his thoughts. Floki had just tied the last knot, and he looked up as well. He paled visibly when he followed Svanir's gaze.

"Oh Mahal, that's nae guid. Broken arm, m'arse, that's a mess, that is."

Dwalin's stomach knotted and unknotted itself at the sight of Fíli's right lower arm that now lay bare. He hadn't lied, of course, it _was_ broken. Yet he had failed to inform them that it was a bit worse than the time he had fallen off his pony when he'd been twenty. The arm was swollen, blue and black in some places, and while Dwalin wasn't usually squeamish at all, he choked on the bile rising in his throat when he spotted a piece of white bone protruding from beneath the skin.

Svanir probed the arm carefully. It was enough to make Fíli flinch and cry out even in his unconscious state. He tried to pull away, and when the three dwarves held him back he struggled against their grips with surprising strength.

"Borun, sedative, now!" barked Svanir. "The strong stuff!"

Dwalin barely heard him. His focus was solely on Fíli. His face was a grimace of pain and his whole body was taut. He thrashed out with his legs when Svanir forced a greenish liquid down his throat, and when the healer clamped a hand over his mouth to keep him from spitting it out Dwalin had to look away. His gaze fell on Kíli who still hadn't woken. His thoughts travelled to Thorin and Balin and then back to Fíli. This couldn't be happening. He had been fine before. Why hadn't he said anything, Dwalin asked himself.

 _Priorities._

"Alright, let's get started, we cannot wait any longer. That fracture should have been treated immediately," Svanir said as if he could read Dwalin's troubled thoughts. The healer glanced at the bald dwarf. "We can manage here."

It was an offer that Dwalin was very tempted to take. The sheer thought of his brother and his friends fighting in that madness outside the tent made his blood boil. They needed him, the battle wasn't won yet, and they needed every able dwarf in their midst. But still.

"My duty is with my king's heir."

Svanir accepted the decision with a nod, and without further words he started the laborious task of mending the arm of Erebor's prince. Fíli groaned and tried to escape the hands that were meant to help him.

"No… no… please," he suddenly whimpered, his eyeballs roving behind tightly clenched eyelids, "Stop, stop…"

He pressed the back of his head against the pillow that Floki had provided and reached out his left hand; his nails scraped against the wooden surface of the table, and without thinking Dwalin took his hand in his right.

"It's alright, laddie, just hold on," the warrior whispered. Fíli's fingers curled around his hand, and Dwalin let him, paying no attention to the blood that Fíli's fingernails drew. He put his left hand onto the young dwarf's shoulder and squeezed it. From the corner of his eye he noticed that Svanir was about to start working on the worst part, which was the bone that had broken the skin, and Dwalin put all his weight onto Fíli's shoulder, preparing for a fight. But the sedative seemed to finally have run its course through the young warrior's body. There was no fight left in him. All that remained was a quiet, high-pitched cry like that of a wounded whelp, and then his body went limp once more. Tear streaks formed silvery lines on the dirty face, and it was a sight that burned itself into Dwalin's mind. He took Fíli's hand into both hands and pressed his forehead against them in a silent prayer.

 _Don't take him to your halls yet, Mandos._

Dwalin didn't watch when Svanir sewed the wound shut and applied a thick bandage around the arm. Floki carefully fixated the broken limb with a sling that he bound tightly against Fíli's chest. Borun left, and only then Dwalin remembered that there were other patients inside the tent. It catapulted his mind to Kíli, and from there it was a short distance to Thorin. His heart grew cold when he realised that he hadn't heard any news all the time. He didn't even know if Balin… No, he chided himself. He would know if his brother was dead. He needed to stay with the sons of Dís.

"A kenna if ma brither is alive," Floki said all of a sudden. He looked much younger now to Dwalin than he had just mere minutes ago. His face was pale, his forehead glinting with sweat.

He looked in the direction of the tent door, not finishing his sentence, as if he expected his brother to come through the door at any second. Dwalin realised immediately that said brother was a soldier in Dáin's army, and he understood. He cast a last glance at Fíli and then at his brother.

"I'll be back," he promised with a raspy voice, and though none of them heard him Floki at least smiled and bowed lightly. Dwalin gathered his weapons that he had carelessly dropped beside the stretcher on which Kíli was lying. He walked towards the tent door and gave his best to focus on what was ahead. But before he even reached the door he heard voices and frightened cries outside the tent. He quickened his pace, wondering what had caused such chaos.

At first he only saw the huge figure. Instinctively he grabbed his sword, readying himself for fighting the monstrous creature that approached the tent at alarming speed. A very young man cowered when the beast growled; his eyes were wide with pure terror. But Dwalin recognised who they were facing and he lowered his sword.

It almost fell from his hands when he spotted the figure the bear was carrying.

"Thorin," he whispered, and then Beorn dropped the dwarven king before him. For a moment Beorn's eyes met his, and while the skinchanger looked terrifying his eyes were kind and sad. He didn't speak, though, and when Dwalin knelt down next to his brother in arms the bear turned around. Shivers ran down Dwalin's spine as Beorn howled and returned to the mêlée.

Thorin groaned quietly. He was in a terrible state, there was no way Dwalin could deny it. He was covered in blood, and an arrow was still protruding from his chest. But his heart was beating, his chest was rising and falling, if only slowly, and when healers came and lifted him up his eyelids fluttered. Dwalin jogged alongside the small party, never taking his eyes off his king. They laid him down in a more secluded corner, and it was there that Thorin opened his eyes.

"The lads…" he croaked before his voice failed him.

"They're alive," Dwalin replied and pressed a hand onto Thorin's shoulder. "They're alive, Thorin."

A small smile crept upon Thorin's face. Then his eyelids closed again. For a few seconds Dwalin only stood at his side, barely seeing the healers who took care of the wounded dwarf. The tent seemed to close in on him as he desperately tried to reassure himself that Thorin was in good hands. His own words echoed in his head. They're alive, he had said, and they _would_ live, all of them, for if only one of them didn't make it Dwalin knew he would never forgive himself. He should never have gone away, oh, he should never have allowed the lads to search the tower in the first place, he should have made sure that Balin –

He choked. His feet moved on their own accord as he slowly staggered backwards and then bolted out of the tent. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the battleground where the battle had already ceased. People were helping each other, some were crying, some were silent, and Dwalin realised that something was amiss. There was no metallic sound, no clubs and mazes smashing against breastplates, no bones breaking, no sickening gurgling sounds of those choking on their own blood.

In the distance he saw dark figures running away from the field. They were being pursued by people on horses, probably elves he reckoned. The ground was littered with corpses, and here and there they had been stacked to piles and were already burning. He inspected one of the piles, covering his mouth and nose against the stench that made his eyes water, and relief flooded him when he saw the ugly faces and the dark armour. Orcs were burning here. There would be no burned dwarves this time, the survivors would make sure of that. He didn't dare to believe it.

The battle was won.

But it wasn't over, not yet. The seasoned warrior made his way across the field. At one point he met Bofur and Bombur, who were carrying the prone form of Bifur, but he didn't stop for them. They seemed alright, and they would take care of each other like family always did. Someone shouted his name, forcing him to turn around. It was Nori. But when he asked him if he had seen his brothers Dwalin could only shake his head. Nori was shaking, and a bloodstained cloth wrapped around the dwarf's hand caught Dwalin's attention.

"Get that treated," he said, but he could tell by the former thief's vacant eyes that the priorities were somewhere else. "When you've found your brothers," he added therefore, and Nori nodded with the ghost of a smile on his face.

"I will. I'll see you later."

Maybe it was in that moment that their mutual antipathy ceased for good.

Dwalin's throat became sore from calling. He was still carrying his sword, but he realised that he wouldn't need it anymore that day. He stashed it into the sheath that was applied to his belt. Snowflakes were falling, covering the ground and deafening his steps. The corpses would soon lie under a blanket of snow, and he wondered how many would never be cried over because there was no one left to care. It was a bitter thought that he couldn't erase. He had seen too much in his long life, and he knew that life was cruel. So often it punished those who least deserved it, while evil lingered and prevailed. He shook his head in a vain attempt to get rid of the haunting thoughts, and when it didn't work he cried out in rage, pulled the sword from its sheath once more and buried it in the corpse of the nearest orc. He stabbed, once, twice, three times, for the three dwarves who were still fighting for their lives, and for his father who didn't live to see Erebor reclaimed, and for everyone he hadn't been able to save along the way. It felt good. Sweat ran down his forehead, his arms shook from exertion, and his vision was blurred at the edges, but it felt good and he didn't stop.

He froze when someone touched his shoulder.

"That's enough, don't you think, brother?"

He turned around and the sword fell from his hands. It landed in the snow, soon to be forgotten there, and Dwalin didn't care. He only saw the white-bearded dwarf in front of him, the scratches on his kind face and the blood matting his hair. Dwalin's body trembled as everything that had come to pass crashed down on him.

"Aye," he said with a voice he didn't recognise as his own. "It is enough."

And then it was his big brother who pulled him close and didn't speak while Dwalin wept quietly, knowing that this secret would be safe with Balin.


	5. Through darkness

Thanks a lot for your reviews. A special thank you to the guest reviewer who I couldn't thank by PM.

This story will have 7 chapters after all, I hope you don't mind this getting a bit longer than originally planned. ;) Please read the A/N at the end.

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 **5\. Through darkness**

" _What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy."_

― _Maester Aemonn, in: A Game of Thrones_

He was suffocating. Something was holding him down, pressing against his ribs and almost crushing his skull. He struggled against the iron weight, but his limbs were tired and didn't obey his will. He tried to cry out, for surely someone would find him and help, though when he opened his mouth no sound came through his chapped lips.

Kíli had always been a fighter. There had to be a way out of that darkness that surrounded him. He had been there before, when the poison in his blood had filled his mind with the darkest thoughts and had almost made him wish for death to claim him. He remembered the agony, the fear, but he also remembered something else. A hand on his shoulder, soothing words of comfort, they had drawn him back when he'd been on the edge between the worlds. He needed them now more than ever, and he searched the darkness for the familiar voice, but all he found was an empty void where his brother should be.

It was that absence that was more frightening than anything else. He could deal with the pain, with the fear of the haunting voices, because Fíli was his lifeline whenever he was falling. He was always there, and now he wasn't, neither in body nor spirit. It wasn't right, it couldn't be, and Kíli realised in his state of limbo that this time he had to fight not only for himself, but also for his brother.

He pushed against the weight on his body, ignoring the hammering pain in his head, but he was weak. He groaned, the sound echoed in his ears, and suddenly he heard it. Words, barely audible at first, but then clearer and clearer.

"Kíli, wake up. Yes, fight for it, come on!"

He reached out his hand, trying to grasp the words and let them pull him out of the darkness, and his fingers curled around something warm. He didn't recognise the hand, but it didn't matter. He had to get out and find his brother, it was the only thing on his mind, and he gathered what little energy he had left and, with a last push, forced his eyelids open.

The world was a blur. He blinked angrily, trying to take in his surroundings, and slowly, very slowly a face came into focus. He didn't recognise the dwarf, though. He had a grey beard and grey eyes that were now twinkling with delight.

"Well done, laddie," the dwarf said, and when he bent low to get a closer look at Kíli the light of a torch got caught in the emblem on his chest. A dwarf from the Iron Hills he was, but he was no warrior, that much Kíli knew. A healer, then.

The healer must have noticed his confusion. He handed him a leather skin filled with water and supported Kíli's head as the young dwarf carefully took a few sips of the cool liquid.

"Borun, at your service. Do you know who you are?" the healer asked then. "What is your name?"

"Kíli," said the archer without missing a beat, and then added, "son of Dís, daughter of Thráin."

The healer spoke to him, but the words didn't reach Kíli. His head was pounding, he noticed a white bandage around his arm, but that wasn't what bothered him. He wracked his brain to remember what had happened, but everything was darkness and screams and fear. He shuddered. It wasn't right, he knew it wasn't. There had been a battle, orcs, he had been fighting alongside Fíli –

"Fíli!" he cried out, though the word sounded false coming from his raw throat, and he bolted upright. A sharp pain exploded behind his forehead, making him clench his eyes tightly and grasping at the linen sheets on which he was lying. It was wrong, so _very_ wrong, for Fíli should be here with him. He always was. Fragments of speeches echoed in his ears, evil words and desperate cries; he could hear him then, and he could hear his own voice, a weak, desperate last stand before the darkness would claim him, when but one word had been on his mind. _Fee_.

Borun had a hand on his shoulder.

"Your brother is alive, Kíli."

It felt as if a whole boulder was lifted off Kíli's chest. He exhaled the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He was alive. No matter what dark images he had seen in his state of unconsciousness, they had been lies. His brother wasn't gone.

There was something in Borun's eyes, though, that told Kíli that not everything was alright.

"Can I see him?" he asked almost timidly. "And… and my uncle?"

It was only when he uttered the words that he realised he didn't know if Thorin was safe. He could be dead for all he knew, but then again Borun would have told him right away, wouldn't he? Though maybe he didn't want to trouble his patient any more than necessary? Where were the others of the company, where was Bilbo, what had become of the men and elves? He couldn't breathe, and his ears filled with a static sound that he thought would make his head burst.

"Easy, lad, easy," Borun mumbled, obviously used to reactions such as this. "Just breathe through it, Kíli. The battle is over, we have won. Do you understand? It's over. Breathe, laddie. In and out. In and out."

Slowly the words sunk in and Kíli's laboured breathing became calm.

 _We have won._

"But my uncle?" he wheezed and wiped at the tears that had formed in his eyes from the exertion of simply filling his lungs with air. His chest ached, but it was nothing compared to the pain that he felt when Borun avoided his gaze.

"I will not lie to you. Our king is gravely wounded."

Kíli's heart leapt when he heard Thorin being addressed like that.

"Gandalf the Grey is at his side, and if anyone can save him it will be him, I suppose. But it has been a long night and a long day, and…"

The healer didn't go on. He didn't have to, for Kíli knew what he couldn't say. It was an unimaginable thought, though, because Thorin couldn't die. He couldn't lose him, not when he had just been released from the grasps of madness and returned to his kin as his true self. Suddenly he felt terribly alone. There were no familiar faces around him, and the smell of disinfectants made him nauseous.

"My brother, please," he muttered. He could see in Borun's eyes that the healer was torn. He obviously didn't want Kíli out of bed just yet, but it must also have been plain to see that the young dwarf wouldn't rest until he'd seen his brother. Kíli tried his best to give the healer what Fíli called the 'lost puppy' look, which never worked on his mother, but usually on Óin and his medical assistants. Borun was no exception.

"Alright," he said. "I'll bring you to him. But Kíli!" he added when Kíli swung his legs from the mattress. "He might not wake up for you. Svanir told me they're fighting to keep his fever down, but he hasn't woken properly since we set his arm. He woke twice, but he wasn't lucid enough to even recognise us."

The words pulled the ground from right under Kíli's feet. For a moment his vision became white, and it was only thanks to the older healer that he didn't fall. He'd known all along that Borun was hiding something, he should have asked immediately. But Fíli was stronger than any dwarf his age, Kíli told himself desperately, he was a fighter. He wouldn't let a simple fever keep him down. He was probably just enjoying a good night's sleep after the months on the road.

 _It has been a long night and a long day._

Borun supported him as Kíli staggered across the room. They passed several beds, all of which were occupied by dwarves and even a man, who looked ridiculously tall on the small stretcher.

"The men and elves didn't have enough room for their own, so we doubled up," Borun remarked almost apologetically, as if it was a shame to host wounded of races other than dwarves. Kíli couldn't care less. For a brief moment he thought of Tauriel, who hadn't cared about racial nonsense, either. He wondered where she was, if she had returned for the battle or if she was far away, dancing by herself on a clearing in the woods she loved so much. He hoped it was the latter.

All of these thoughts evaporated when he and Borun reached a bed in another compartment of the huge tent. Immediately Kíli recognised the light hair and the sharp outline of his brother's face against the flickering light of the torch. He made the last steps without Borun's aid. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and grabbed Fíli's left hand.

"Fíli," he whispered, and for a while that was the only thing he could say. He couldn't speak. He could only watch his brother's chest rising and falling, however slightly, and lay his other hand against his cheek. His face was flushed, with bruises standing out like shadows against a brick wall, his forehead dry and burning when he touched it, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed. But he was alive.

Two dwarves appeared at the bed, and Borun silently retreated.

"Svanir, at your service," said the older of the two, "and that is Floki."

Floki didn't speak. Kíli eyed him curiously. His face was that of a young dwarf, but there were grey strands in his otherwise fiery red beard. He watched him as he carefully undid the bandage around Fíli's arm. His movements were calm, his hands steady, yet something didn't seem right about him.

Fíli flinched when Floki cleaned the wound. Kíli's stomach lurched at the sight. Several lines of stitches made Fíli's arm look as if it was about to fall apart if it wasn't for the dwarvish needlework, and the skin around the wounds was of an angry red colour that formed a stark contrast to the almost black bruises.

"The arm was badly broken," Svanir, who had laid a wet piece of cloth on Fíli's burning forehead, said as he followed Kíli's gaze. "We managed to fix it as good as possible. I'm afraid the wound got infected, but so far we've managed to keep it from spreading. You two really didn't get here a minute too soon."

"How did we even get here?" Kíli asked, only then realising that the last thing he remembered was a cold tower of stone.

"Your friend carried you. Dwalin, I think that was his name. Your brother could walk on his own, but the exertion didn't do him good."

Kíli's lips had curled to a small smile when he heard Dwalin's name. But then he frowned as he looked at the now new bandage around Fíli's arm.

"He fought Azog," he remembered. "How could he even –"

His voice became hoarse and he focused on Floki, who fixated the broken limb with a sling that he tied tightly against Fíli's chest.

"You'd be surprised about what someone is able to do if only his mind is strong enough," Svanir told him. "We can will our bodies to do amazing things, if need be."

"When we were little, Balin told us about how Ma once killed a mountain lion with her bare hands when she was outside gathering firewood," Kíli reminisced. "I was just a babe then, and she had taken me with her and put my cot down on the ground when the beast came. It was a harsh winter and it was starved, so maybe it thought a wee dwarfling would be easy prey. My Ma made sure I wasn't."

He choked and glanced at Fíli's still form.

"When Balin told me, I believed him simply because it was my mother he talked about. She was always strong, so it never occurred to me that this wasn't the usual."

"Your brother takes after your mother then, I suppose," Svanir said with a smile. "That kind of love – that between brothers, or that of a mother for her child – gives us strength that surpasses everything. Thank you, Floki," he added when the red-bearded dwarf covered Fíli's chest with a blanket again.

The healer looked up for the first time. Kíli's heart stopped then, for he had never seen such an expression in eyes so young before. They were filled with a pain so plainly written on the blue irises that Kíli couldn't look at them a second longer. There was no sparkle in them, no light, only darkness and agony of a kind that no axe could cause.

Floki walked away without a word, and Kíli looked at Svanir with confusion and uncertainty.

"Doesn't he speak?"

Svanir shook his head sadly.

"He hasn't spoken for a whole day now. He was a lively lad, but that was before his brother…" He paused and bowed his head. "His brother was in Dáin's army. He didn't make it. And now Floki is broken just like him. I suppose caring for others gives him some sort of comfort, so I let him be."

Subconsciously Kíli glanced at his own brother. He couldn't begin to understand what the young dwarf Floki was going through. The sheer thought of losing Fíli had been enough to send his mind reeling.

"Shouldn't he be with his brother?" he asked quietly. "I mean… to say goodbye?"

A pained expression flickered across Svanir's face. It was obvious that he didn't want to answer. Eventually he sighed.

"There is no body, Kíli," he said gravely. "It is common practise for orcs to keep their wargs hungry when they march into battle. Floki only has a broken shield and an axe and what was left of his brother."

The words hung in the air while Kíli fought down the bile rising in his throat. Instinctively he grabbed Fíli's good hand more tightly. He held his breath when he felt a weak response. Fíli's fingers curled around his own, and Kíli smiled through unshed tears.

"Come back to me, Fee. Please. You can wake up now."

Svanir put a hand onto his shoulder. His voice was serious when he spoke.

"Watch over your brother, Kíli. We need to break his fever, but our medication can't work miracles. His body is putting up a fight against the fire in his arm, but by doing so will soon destroy itself. We cannot risk that."

The implication of his words wasn't lost to Kíli, yet he refused to even consider the possibility.

"He'll be fine," he replied through pressed lips. He had to be.

"I'll be nearby if you need me."

Svanir left to another corner of the tent, and Kíli was left alone with his brother. He stifled a choked, fake laugh. He didn't need Svanir. Fíli did. Thorin did. And yet no one seemed capable of doing something. He rested his chin on the back of his hand that was covering Fíli's. The steady movement of the young dwarf's chest was hypnotising. Kíli's eyes struggled to remain open. He knew that outside the tent night was already falling again.

"You've slept through a whole day and night, sleepyhead," he muttered, willing his brother to open his eyes and punch him in the side for that remark like he usually did. But this time he remained still.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry about being so cruel to Floki, but I knew all along that he would be my example of how war doesn't only change the soldiers, but also those who have to stay behind. In war there is never a perfectly happy ending, even if the good side wins and the monsters lose. An overall victory may still be a nightmare for the individual.


	6. Morning come

I hope there are still a few people reading this! Reviews would make my day! :) This is the penultimate chapter, and I hope you like the way it ends. The last one will be from Thorin's point of view, I just couldn't leave him out of the story.

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 **6\. Morning come**

 _One day she would allow herself to be less than strong. But not today. It could not be today._

― _George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones_

Kíli was woken from a troubled sleep by a punch in the face. He startled and stifled a yell, and then his eyes and ears began to work properly and the hurt was forgotten.

"Fíli," he breathed and grabbed his brother's hand, but the blonde dwarf didn't seem to hear him. He squirmed under the hand that Kíli put onto his chest. The blanket had fallen off the bed, so that Kíli had a clear view on some bandages he hadn't noticed before. Even in the dim light of the oil lamps, that had replaced the brighter torches, Kíli saw the red stains on white. He wondered if he should call for someone, but then again the stains didn't grow, which probably meant that the wounds had closed. So instead he focused on Fíli, who was shivering and mumbling incoherent words that Kíli barely understood.

He picked the blanket up and covered his brother's body with it. He was hot to the touch, and he groaned quietly when Kíli tried to tuck the blanket under his body to keep it from falling down again.

"No, please… go…"

Kíli froze, for surely his brother couldn't mean that. He had never sent him away when he was sick.

"Fíli, it's me. It's Kíli. Please, Fee, now's the time to wake up."

He almost jumped when Fíli's eyes flew open. He held Kíli's lower arm in an iron grip that made the younger one wonder where he took the strength from. He stared at Kíli with blank terror mirrored in his eyes, and Kíli realised that his brother didn't really see him.

"Go," Fili repeated with a raw voice that was on the edge of breaking. "Run! Run!"

The last word turned into a drenched sob that made Kíli's heart run cold. He tried desperately to keep his brother's body from trembling, but Fíli's legs trashed weakly and he shook his head, oblivious to his surroundings.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whimpered suddenly. "I tried, but I… I… I'm sorry Da, I didn't…"

"Fíli, please, wake up," Kíli begged while tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He didn't know what Fíli was talking about. He never spoke of their father, and Kíli never asked him to. It was an unwritten rule that had never been broken.

But Fíli's blue eyes, glazed over from fever and tears, rolled into the back of his head and his body became limp. It was then that Kíli cried for help. A healer came, not Svanir but a stranger, but there was nothing the healer could do other than force a dark red liquid down Fíli's throat. The wounded dwarf struggled against the healer's strong hold, and the healer cursed as he clamped Fíli's mouth shut in order to force the liquid down. Some of the medicine dribbled down the blonde's chin and ran into his beard, and to Kíli it looked like blood that didn't cease flowing. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him then, but he fought it down and instead buried his nose in the crook of his brother's neck as soon as the healer was gone.

"You're a fighter, remember, Fíli?" he whispered. His words were muffled against Fíli's shoulder, but he was certain that he would hear him. "I want to help you here, but I can't when you're so far away. I need you, brother, I need you so much right now so don't you dare –"

His voice failed him. With a rag he wiped away the remains of the medicine on Fíli's chin and he exchanged the wet cloth on his brother's forehead with a fresh one that was ice cold. He had never felt so helpless in his whole life. He wondered if that was how Fíli had felt back in Laketown. Had he thought that his brother's life was slipping through his fingers like melting snow on a sunny winter's day? Had he tried in vain to drag him back from wherever he was, only to find out it wasn't in his power?

But it _had_ been in his power. Kíli remembered only little of what had happened in Laketown after the orcs' attack. What he did remember, though, was a soft voice luring him away from the darkness, strange words that he didn't understand and that still made so much sense, and mingled with the words the echo of a promise given a lifetime ago.

 _I promise I won't let you die._

It was the only memory he had of a night of too much drinking, but throughout the years the few words had remained engraved in his very bones, and in the darkness they had become his lifeline.

"I won't let you die, Fíli. Innikh dê, khurmê. Nê imrid. Innikh dê. Innikh dê."

He repeated the words over and over again, ignoring the pitying look on the healer's face when he passed by and the way his own body protested against the lack of sleep. His brain seemed to try to burst out of his skull, and it was only a matter of time until Borun would tie him to his own bed, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the ragged breathing of his brother that told Kíli he was still fighting, and as long as Kíli had any strength left in him he would help him find a way out of the dark. He didn't know the time, maybe hours had passed since he woke up, maybe days, it was all the same to the raven-haired dwarf who mumbled the only words he could think of like a very simple lullaby.

"Innikh dê, khurmê."

He conjured memories of happier times and tried to form a connection to his brother, to show him the images of their childhood and make him wish to return. At some point Bofur appeared beside him, and for the shortest of moments Kíli's worries were replaced by imminent relief when he heard that the rest of the company had fared surprisingly well. Nori was the one with the worst injuries, but Bofur assured Kíli that he was already making plans to become the first lock picker with only eight fingers on his hands. Dori had chucked him over the head for that, which had caused Ori to laugh so hard that he had pulled his stitches. The healers hadn't been amused.

But Bofur didn't stay, since he and Bombur were taking turns watching over Bifur who was still as unconscious as Fíli.

Kíli was alone again. Through a small gap in the tent wall he could see the surroundings emerging from the darkness. Somewhere the sun was rising.

"Please, Fee," he whispered, "wake up. I need you here, my brother. We all need you here."

Far away in the Blue Mountains his mother was probably already up and awake, watching the sunrise and thinking of her sons and praying to Mahal for their safety. The thought brought tears to Kíli's eyes and he wiped them away furiously. He didn't want anyone to see him cry. He was a prince, a warrior, a son of Durin, a –

"Kíli?"

A brother. The brother of Fíli.

"Kee?"

The word was so quietly spoken that he didn't hear it at first. He thought he had imagined it, and why shouldn't he when he had wished so desperately to hear it? It was certainly a trick, a cruel trick no less, and he bit his lip and shook his head.

But the slight movement against his fingers was no imagination.

Slowly Kíli turned his head, still fearing the betrayal his mind could chose to hurt him with. Blue eyes met his own, eyes that he had known for his whole life. Eyes that were heavy with fatigue and pain, but that were no longer unseeing and wide. Kíli's throat restricted; he wanted to speak, but no words left his mouth. He only curled his fingers around his brother's good arm and placed the other against his cheek, reassuring himself that his skin was cooler than before, if only a little, and this time he didn't fight the tears or the harsh sobs that escaped his raw throat.

"It's alright, khurmê," Fíli mumbled. "It's alright."

It took a while until Kíli found his voice again. In the meantime Svanir came to check on Fíli, satisfied to find his fever reduced and the wound less red and evil-looking than before. Floki was at his side, and though he still didn't speak his lips curled to the weakest of smiles as he reapplied the bandage.

It was only when the two healers had left that Kíli squeezed his brother's hand and uttered the first words since his desperate pleading for Fíli to return.

"I missed you," he said with a raspy voice. "You were so far away, and I couldn't reach you."

"But you did," Fíli answered quietly. It was plain to see that the simple act of talking was hard for him, but Kíli couldn't bring himself to stop him. "Everything was dark, and I saw things… evil things…" He shivered. Silently Kíli laid a hand onto his shoulder and Fíli took a shuddering breath. "It was a nightmare, and I wanted to get away from it, I wanted to just let go so badly, because… but I couldn't. You didn't let me."

"How could I ever?" Kíli grinned. It helped to erase the memories of the night and also the fear of what might still happen. Quickly he glanced at the tent door, almost expecting someone to rush in and spoil the moment of happiness by telling him that Thorin was dead. He choked.

"Thorin?" Fíli asked as if he could read his brother's mind.

"No news," Kíli said and ran a hand down his face. It came away wet from tears, and he wiped his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. He was still wearing the same sleeveless undershirt and trousers as before, only his armour and tunic were gone. It was a miracle that nobody in his vicinity had passed out so far, the way he had to be reeking of sweat and blood. He couldn't stifle the chuckle, and Fíli narrowed his eyes.

"Are _you_ alright?"

It was a good question, Kíli thought. His head was pounding more awfully than ever, his arm ached where it had been bandaged, and he noticed that he hadn't eaten properly in days.

"Yes," he replied with unwavering certainty. "I'm alright."

Fíli nodded. His eyes were drooping and Kíli knew that he was only fighting the urge to sleep for his sake. And Kíli _did_ wish that his brother would tell him about his nightmares, because the pained cries still echoed in his head whenever his mind strayed too far from the present. The fear had been real, and deep down he knew that the images Fíli had seen had been worse than just an ordinary bad dream. A shiver ran down his spine as Kíli realised just how close their encounter with death had been. It could have been much worse.

Someone coughed and the brothers startled.

"Balin," Fíli sighed with relief. "Mahal be blessed."

Balin looked older than ever before since Kíli had known him. There were lines in his face that hadn't been there before, and his eyes weren't twinkling the way they used to. But he was smiling.

"It's good to see you both alive and well, lads."

"Thorin?" the brothers asked simultaneously.

"That's why I'm here," Balin said and laid a hand onto Kíli's shoulder. "He is awake. Gandalf worked a miracle, I daresay. He will make a full recovery."

Fíli let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes for a split second in relief. Kíli allowed the words to echo in his ears, relishing the feeling they evoked in him. Not long ago his world had been dark, full of fear and despair, and at one point he hadn't believed that there would be a way out of the nightmare he'd been trapped in. But here he was, with his brother by his side and his uncle waiting for him, both alive.

"You can see him if you like," Balin added softly. "My brother is with him at the moment."

Kíli glanced at Fíli, who returned his questioning gaze with a smile. Kíli knew that his brother would be the last to hold him back now. But somehow the thought of leaving him now didn't feel right. Before his inner eye he could still see the pain etched upon Fíli's face and he could hear his panicked cries clearly echoing in his mind. He remembered the claws of fear tugging at his heart, threatening to rip it apart the very moment his brother's breaths would cease.

Maybe Fíli didn't need his company. But Kíli surely needed his.

"I belong with my brother," he said quietly, and he knew, even before Fíli took his hand and squeezed it lightly, that it was the right decision. Balin nodded.

"I need to speak with Dáin and the healers in command of the tents, see what we can do for the wounded, and then organise the messenger party that will ride back to Ered Luin, and then –"

"Thank you, Balin," Fíli interrupted him. There was warmth in his eyes that he rarely offered to anyone but his close family. "For everything."

Kíli knew that there was a lot in these few words that his brother was unable to say. Times had been difficult, and he wondered how things might have turned out if it hadn't been for his uncle's closest friends. Balin didn't reply, but for a short moment his eyes lit up, and he bowed lightly before the brothers.

"Always."

With that single word he left. Kíli watched him as he vanished through the tent door. When he turned his head he found Fíli looking at him with weary eyes.

"You don't need to stay for my sake, Kee. I'm dead tired, I'll be asleep in a blink."

Kíli shook his head. He didn't know how to put into words what was going on in his head, all he knew was that he couldn't leave his brother just yet. And, miraculously, Fíli seemed to understand. With a groan he moved to the far right side of the mattress and winked at the younger one.

"Normally I would prefer a pretty healer lass to keep me company, but I guess that wish won't come true any time soon."

Kíli chuckled and gently poked his brother in the side.

"You're an idiot."

Fíli's face became solemn immediately.

"We are both alive. All other wishes can wait. For now, I'm grateful for what we have. The things I saw when I was lost in the dark… all that horror and fear made me realise just how lucky we've been in the end. To think that just one altered step could have made this end so much worse…"

He bit his lip and took a deep breath.

"But it didn't. Now get some rest."

Kíli felt the tears prickling in his eyes when he listened to his brother. He didn't want to think of what could have been. If Thorin and Dwalin hadn't found them in time, if he hadn't ignored Fíli's order to stay behind, if they had gone separate ways at Ravenhill – no, he wouldn't get lost in these dark thoughts.

"Alright," he mumbled and lay down next to his brother. The mattress was barely large enough for the two of them, but it would do. It reminded him of his childhood days, when he had crawled into his big brother's bed during the thunderstorms that raged in the mountains during long winter nights. Just the presence of his brother had been enough to ease his troubled mind, and now, many decades later, that hadn't changed. He tugged at the blanket and grinned to himself when Fíli cursed, but didn't pull the blanket back to himself. As children, Fíli had always been the one to give up his half of the blanket rather than make Kíli go and fetch his own.

Today, Kíli only used as much of the blanket as he needed and made sure that his brother was covered from head to toe.

"Goodnight, brother," he whispered.

"It's morning, stupid," was the reply, which was quickly followed by a deep sigh. "Get some sleep. And Kee?" he added. "Next time you climb into my bed, make sure you take a bath first. You stink."

Kíli huffed, but at the same time started to laugh quietly. It was the first time he could truly laugh in what felt like a lifetime, and he had to press his face into the mattress to stifle his chuckles even when Fíli had long drifted into sleep.

* * *

 **A/N 1: The promise that Kíli remembers is given by Fíli in my story "Excuse me while I'm dying".**

 **A/N 2: Innikh dê = Return to me. Nê imrid = Don't die. Khurmê = my brother.**

 **A/N 3: I guess you know what Fíli saw and experienced in his nightmare, don't you? Well, in this scenario Azog didn't get to kill him, ha!**


	7. Not so bad

This is the final chapter of my BOFA-AU, and massive thanks to everyone who read this story, put it on alert, to favourites or left a review. Hugs to jaymzNshed especially, for reviewing every single chapter.

I didn't initially plan to write from Thorin's POV, but somehow I felt this was necessary to pick up the loose threads and connect this story to the movie. I hope it's not too soppy. Please read the A/N at the end!

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 **7\. Not so bad**

" _It's the family name that lives on. It's all that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your honour... but family." – Tywin Lannister, in: A Game of Thrones_

Thorin watched tiredly as Balin vanished through the tent door.

"Go with him," he said and looked at Gandalf, who was sitting on a stool and sucking on his pipe. The smoke curled and rose in the air before it found a small hole in the fabric of the tent wall and disappeared. The wizard furrowed his brows.

"You have only just come back from the doorstep of Mandos' halls, Thorin Oakenshield. You will have to endure my company a while longer."

He winked at the dark-haired dwarf as he blew a cloud of smoke into the air, but Thorin didn't find it funny at all.

"The lads," he croaked and exchanged a fleeting glace with Dwalin, who was standing stoically in the corner. "Please see to them."

It had been the first thing on his mind when he'd woken, and the lines of worry on Dwalin's face hadn't helped to ease his concern for his sister-sons. They were alive, he knew that much, simply because he would feel it in his very heart if the worst had happened. He had known them for so long, practically raised them as his sons as well as he could, and he would _know_.

It was that hope he was clinging to and he daren't think of what he would do if that fragile piece of hope shattered in his hands.

He remembered everything. Some might see it as a blessing, and maybe it was, but it didn't seem like it to the dwarf. He knew he had been unconscious to the world ever since he had come to the healers' tent, but inside his mind had been raging with memories that he would rather forget. The look of pure dismay on Fíli's face when he had first welcomed him and Kíli in Erebor. The tears in Kíli's eyes when he had screamed at him, and his own fear of having lost his nephews' trust. The spite in Fíli's words when the young dwarf had made his choice in Laketown and had thus been more loyal and more honourable than Thorin himself had ever been. Dwalin's disappointment and wavering trust. Bilbo ducking before him, terror and sadness equally mixed on his kind face.

A tremor ran through his body. He only realised that Gandalf had spoken when the wizard put a hand onto his shoulder.

"Did you hear me, Thorin? They are alright."

"How do you know that?" Thorin replied indignantly. "You weren't with them. You didn't help them even when they deserved it so much more, you –"

"It wasn't in my power to help either of them," Gandalf said quietly, ignoring Thorin's rising voice. Dwalin stepped closer, his fists clenched at his side. "It was my task to bring _you_ back, Thorin. Your nephews had each other, and they needed each other. Believe me, they are alright."

He rose from where he was sitting, which was enough for Thorin to know that the conversation was over.

"I'll leave you then," announced the wizard. "I need to speak with Thranduil and Bard. And find our burglar."

He stressed the last words and raised one brow. He didn't need to. The words alone were enough to make Thorin's blood run cold.

"Bilbo!" he exclaimed and clenched the fur that was covering him. He felt heat rising in his cheeks when he realised that he hadn't even asked for him. He could be dead for all he knew, and he had never had the chance to apologise for his wrongs, though surely Bilbo must have known that he regretted his words at the gate. He _had_ to know.

"Gandalf, please… when you find him, would you bring him here? If he will see me at all," he added. He wondered how he would feel if the roles were reversed. How could he ask forgiveness from others when he could hardly forgive himself?

Gandalf nodded courtly, though his eyes twinkled when he stuffed his pipe into the inside of his cloak.

When he was gone, Thorin let his head fall against the pillow and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a short moment, waiting for the uneasy feeling to pass. It didn't. He forced his eyelids to rise once more, ignoring the pain running through his body whenever he moved despite the medication the healers had undoubtedly given him. His gaze fell onto Dwalin, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. There were still flecks of dried blood on his cheek and the bald part of his head, and Thorin didn't dare ask whether it was his own or someone else's.

"I'm sorry," Dwalin suddenly spoke, and the words were so unexpected that Thorin thought, for a moment, that he had misheard his friend.

"Sorry?" he echoed flatly. "Sorry for what?"

"I abandoned you," Dwalin replied, and the pain that filled his voice was mirrored in his eyes as he knelt down at the side of the bed. "I didn't return when I should have, and you almost…"

He choked and reached out his hand as if to grab Thorin by the arm, but stalled at the last second. Thorin watched him intently. He had rarely seen his friend being so emotional. Usually Dwalin was the most reserved of the company, someone who hardly ever showed his emotions too openly. Whatever troubled him, he kept to himself. The last time Thorin had seen him in such a state of turmoil had been the aftermath of the battle of Azanulbizar. Dwalin and Balin had lost their father then, and as far as Thorin could recall it was the first and last time he had seen the seasoned warrior cry. But now his eyes were glistening suspiciously, and Thorin knew that his oldest friend was losing the fight against the overwhelming guilt.

That feeling wasn't unfamiliar to Thorin. Mahal knew he'd had his fair share of survivor's guilt in the past.

"I didn't die," Thorin said firmly, and he could clearly see the way Dwalin's eyes widened at the last word. "I didn't die, and even if I had died…"

He ran a hand over his face and down his short beard.

"Dwalin, it was I who sent you away. You didn't abandon me. I won't lie: I was certain that I wouldn't make it home. And I wouldn't have if it wasn't for Beorn and the elves. I didn't stand a chance against that army, and even when the elves came it wasn't enough."

"What happened?" Dwalin asked quietly.

"It was a massacre," Thorin remembered and winced inwardly when the images of the fight resurfaced. "Orcs and elves were falling around me. I remember the redhead, the she-elf who was in Mirkwood, and the son of Thranduil. The woman was slain," he recalled, and he felt in a strange way sad for her. The image of Thranduil's son, his handsome face contorted with grief and rage as he shook her lifeless body, appeared before his inner eye. The same emotions had played across Fíli's face when he had cradled his unconscious brother in his arms.

"Thorin?"

He startled and found Dwalin looking at him with unhidden concern.

"I was wounded pretty badly," Thorin continued and subconsciously felt for his chest where the arrow had pierced through armour and skin. "Mahal only knows how I could still stand, even before the wretched arrow caught me straight in the chest just when Beorn came out of nowhere. Then everything became a blur, and all I could think was that it wasn't so bad an ending after all."

At peace. He had felt at peace, for the first time in a long time. His thoughts had been with his sister and her sons, and how everything had been worth it as long as they were safe. He kept these thoughts to himself, though. There were some things that Thorin couldn't say out loud, not even to Dwalin.

But when he watched the multitude of emotions flicker across his friend's face, he knew that he understood anyway.

"When Beorn brought me back, all I could think of was how glad I was that I sent you away to watch over the lads. If it wasn't for you, Durin knows what – no. No, Dwalin, you are the last person who has to apologise for anything. You kept my nephews safe. My sister's sons are alive because of you, and for that I will be forever grateful."

His voice had become raspy towards the end of his short monologue. He knew he would soon fall asleep again, yet he felt like he had to wait a while longer. A soft cough from behind the flap door of the tent proved him right. Dwalin had heard it, too, and he smiled a little as he laid a hand onto Thorin's shoulders.

"I think someone wants to see you. I'll be outside if you need me." He hesitated. "Thank you."

 _Thank you for trusting me._

Thorin wondered when Dwalin would understand that it was he, not his loyal brother in arms, who had gambled with that mutual trust. He had almost thrown away everything he had once placed above everything else – loyalty, honour, a willing heart – when the gold had imprisoned his mind.

But his voice failed him, because in that moment the tent door opened. The first thing he saw was the pointy end of a hat, but quickly his gaze fell onto the one who almost fell over his own feet when he entered the tent. Thorin had the distinct notion that Gandalf had given Bilbo more than the figurative push this time. Dwalin seized the opportunity to leave the tent, which left Bilbo standing before the bed with his eyes cast onto the ground.

Thorin watched him, and as he saw the hobbit, who was nervously bending and unbending his fingers and biting his bottom lip, he thought he had never felt remorse stronger than in that moment. There was a lot he had to say, that he should have said earlier and most importantly, that he never should have said in the first place and that he desperately wished he could take back.

But words could never be unsaid. Once spoken, they remained forever, lurking in the corners of the mind, sometimes forgotten for a long time before they would show themselves at the most unexpected of times. Thorin took a deep breath and carefully propped himself up against the back of the bed. An ache deep in his chest made him wince, and he knew that it was only partly due to the arrow wound. More than the physical pain, it was the desperate need of forgiveness that clawed at his heart.

The rational part of his mind told him that he didn't deserve forgiveness, least of all from Bilbo. It was something he couldn't demand, king or not. Forgiveness, like trust, was something to be earned, and Mahal knew he had done nothing to earn it these past days.

"It's good to see you are well," Thorin muttered. "I feared the worst."

Bilbo's hand flew to his forehead. Thorin narrowed his eyes and found a barely visible wound there that must have been cleaned not long ago.

"Hit my head," Bilbo explained and offered a lopsided grin. "Gandalf said I should thank my Tookish ancestors. Heads as strong as stone, the Tooks."

"Just like dwarves," Thorin remarked. Both the dwarf and the hobbit laughed, and for a moment Thorin could forget what had happened. But the moment was only short-lived, and the dwarven king's laughter died quickly.

"I am so sorry, Bilbo. I know words can never undo the wrongs I did, but please know that I regret what I did at the gates. You have been a dear friend to me throughout the journey, and also to my kin, and you went through all these perils only to almost getting killed by my own hands."

His hands were shaking as if they remembered how close they had come to that unforgivable act.

"Thorin –"

"We have reclaimed the mountain and the lost gold, that is true. But I was too blind to see that gold cannot buy everything. I had to come so close to losing everything, before my eyes were opened to what I should have seen before. What you have always seen. I often doubted you, doubted your judgement and your loyalty. For that I apologise."

Bilbo had kept his gaze set on the ground during Thorin's monologue. When he raised his head his eyes were shining. He fumbled with the sleeves of his tunic that was torn in some places and singed in others. His hands were dirty, and instead of a handkerchief he was carrying a small sword. He had changed. He was no longer the hobbit who had left Bag End.

"I am glad I went through all these perils," Bilbo spoke quietly. "I saw things I never could have imagined, and someday I will look back and remember. Remember everything that happened. The good and the bad. I have seen many bad things, that's true, but I've also seen that there's much good in this world, good people, kind people, and to have met them and walked the same paths as them is more than any Baggins deserves."

Maybe he hadn't changed so much after all, Thorin thought to himself. Maybe Bilbo had changed less than anyone else.

"You have proven your worth a hundred times over, Bilbo," Thorin said and he meant it. "I will forever be in your debt, and I shall never forget that. Even when you've returned to your books and your armchair, when you've planted your tree and when that tree has grown into the sky I shall not forget that."

At these words Bilbo reached into his pocket.

"You remembered it," he mumbled and smiled. He opened his hand, and in his palm laid the small acorn that he had carried through half of Middle-earth. Bilbo looked down onto it for a moment before his gaze met Thorin's.

"You will be a good king, Thorin Oakenshield."

With that he turned around and slowly walked towards the tent door. Thorin followed him with his eyes, trying to focus on something other than the pit in his stomach. He didn't feel like a king. He didn't deserve the crown.

"Thorin?"

He flinched when Bilbo stopped before the door and turned to look at him.

"I forgive you, Thorin, even though you cannot yet find forgiveness for yourself. But someday you will."

He vanished behind the tent door, leaving Thorin on his own with his troubled mind. Bilbo's words echoed in his ears. They were more than he had hoped for, and he knew that Bilbo meant them with all his heart. He could only hope that eventually he might believe them.

Suddenly the bed seemed to close in on him. He was aware of his weak state, but he didn't care. He had lost so much time when he had been within the tight grip of the gold. There were so many things that he had never said because the call of the gold had drowned out his own voice. The sheer thought that he might never have gotten the chance to make amends made him sick.

Thorin groaned as he put his feet onto the ground. For a moment he only sat on the edge of the bed, almost afraid that a healer might reprimand him for his folly. A healer, or worse, Gandalf. He grimaced and massaged his aching arm. He was the king under the mountain, and no one would keep him from going wherever in Durin's name he wanted.

He still held his breath as he quietly slipped through the tent door.

No one had told him where they were, so maybe it was his instinct as an uncle or pure luck that made him find them so soon. A healer looked up as he entered the compartment of the tent. His beard had a red hue in the light of the torch, and his brightly blue eyes watched Thorin intently, though he didn't say a word. Thorin nodded his thanks and approached the bed in the corner.

He had often found them like this when they had been young. His sister's sons had been two gems of the same rock for as long as he could remember, and in times of trouble one would always seek comfort in the other's presence.

A small smile tugged at Thorin's lips as he watched them. He realised that, until that moment, he hadn't been completely convinced of the truth in Gandalf's words. To see his sistersons now, alive and considerably well, was more than he had hoped for ever since he had sent them away at Ravenhill.

Kíli was lying on his side facing his brother. His upper arm was bandaged, as was his head. The sight brought back memories that Thorin would rather forget, memories of blood on stony ground and a still body that had once been vibrant with life. He reached out his hand and exhaled a shaky breath when he found his nephew's hand warm against his own skin.

Fíli was lying on his back, his right arm tightly bound against his chest, the blanket slipped from his upper body revealing a bloody patch covering his collarbone and numerous bruises in various places of his torso. In sleep he looked much younger than his years. Thorin's heart ached when he recalled the past events. He remembered the fear and despair in his nephew's eyes, his shaking hand as he had gripped his sword for a last stand by his king's side. During the battle and even before he had put his family first, no matter what the consequences for him would be.

 _I belong with my brother._

The five words replayed in Thorin's head, and it was only now as he looked at the brothers that he truly knew what they meant.

In that moment Fíli stirred. His eyelids fluttered and, as if out of habit, he immediately reached out his hand and put it onto Kíli's. A small sigh escaped his lips. Then he looked up and his gaze met Thorin's. What little colour had been in his face faded, but his blue eyes lit up in a way Thorin hadn't seen in a long time.

"Uncle?" he whispered, and he raised a shaking hand as if he feared that his mind was deceiving him. Swiftly Thorin came to his side and took his hand in his own.

"Oh Fíli," was all he could say before his voice failed him. He had wanted to say so many things, but now all he could do was look at the two young dwarves before him. Kíli must have sensed the commotion. He woke and only stared at his uncle for what seemed like minutes. His eyes were glazed, but his lips were curled to a broad smile.

"I'm glad to see you are well," said Fíli and tried to push himself into a more upright position. Gently Thorin laid a hand onto his chest. He thought he could feel the heartbeat through the thin shirt, and he remembered what Balin had once told him.

 _The line of Durin will not be so easily broken._

"I am so proud of you," he heard himself say, and his voice was steady now. "You have fought bravely, both of you, and you brought honour to the house of Durin. Sons of Durin, indeed. You fight for each other and stand up for what's right, even when some are too blind to tell wrong from right. More than valour in battle and skill with a blade, these are the virtues that matter. I see that now. I couldn't ask for better sons."

He choked down the lump forming in his throat. Neither Fíli nor Kíli spoke. There was no need for words, for the trust and love reflected from two pairs of eyes, one blue and one brown, told Thorin everything he needed to know.

He was forgiven.

He stayed at the bedside until the young dwarves had drifted into sleep again, and even when the sound of snoring filled the air he couldn't bring himself to leave. None of the healers bothered him, and when Gandalf passed by he only smiled knowingly and left again.

Thorin knew that soon he would have to face others, face those he had wronged and stand up for his actions. He would do that without hesitation; it was the least he could do. He was a son of kings, and he would make his fathers proud.

With that promise on his mind he rested his head on the mattress and watched the steady rise and fall of his heir's chest that reminded him that there were things more valuable than a crown and gems. He had lost sight of that once, but he would never forget it again. He would make them proud. He would earn their forgiveness. And maybe, someday, he would find forgiveness for himself.

 _What you couldn't do I will: I forgive you._

("For Blue Skies", Strays Don't Sleep)

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 **A/N 1: I'm sorry about Tauriel, but I kind of like the idea of her dying in battle and Kili going on with his life thinking she's far away, but safe.**

 **A/N 2: I love Bilbo's and Thorin's farewell in the movie, one of the best scenes of all Middle-earth movies, I daresay. It's so touching that Thorin remembered Bilbo's little speech from AUJ, and I wanted to find a way to include that in this fic. I also wanted Dwalin to be free of guilt. Graham McTavish said at the con that Dwalin would never forgive himself that the Durins died, and that he would rather have died instead of them. So in this version he doesn't have to feel guilty for the rest of his life.  
**

 **A/N 3: This will probably be my last fanfic for the next months. Tomorrow me and a group of people at my LotR forum will start a RPG, it'll be my first RPG ever so I'll be super busy writing not only my own character, but also - sometimes -Fili (yay, so proud they trust me with him). Plus, HobbitCon 4 is less than 6 months away and I'm determined to get a cosplay done until then. Oh and yeah, there's this totally annoying thing called real life. :P Anyway, I have an idea or two for one-shots (Dwalin...), but I really don't know when I'll find the time, so just keep your eyes open (or subscribe^^).**


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